


I’ve no intention of confessing today

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Flustered Crowley (Good Omens), Forehead Kisses, Golden Girls References, Hugs, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Rating for Language, Romance, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, accidentally confessing in a love letter?, all soft like?, extraordinary amounts of alcohol, it's more likely than you think, of course, press their foreheads together, yeah that, you know when characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley, in a drunken fit of inspiration (read: idiocy), miracles a love letter to the bookshop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 51
Kudos: 194
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	I’ve no intention of confessing today

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Nie zamierzam nic dzisiaj wyznawać](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28383579) by [aveneris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aveneris/pseuds/aveneris)



> Thanks to [Luinlothana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luinlothana/pseuds/Luinlothana) , whose primary goal in life seems to be to distract me from my WIPs with potential for fluff.  
> Title from Vienna Teng’s “Unwritten Letter #1” which we can agree Crowley is at least partially responsible for, right?  
> (Reminder for show-only fans that it’s book-canon that Crowley likes The Golden Girls. Don’t blame me for this.)  
> 

A common staple of the modern romance-to-be is the unsent text.

Many humans, in a fit of youthful yearning and wistful longing, find themselves texting crushes and unrealized loves with declarations of intent. This is a task often abandoned, carefully typed sentences damned to the drafts or hastily backspaced in a moment of clarity. Most everyone can generally agree it’s a terrible idea to admit the desires of one’s heart over text, but, nonetheless, it is an element of twenty-first-century romances everywhere.

However, what anyone with a modicum of historical knowledge can tell you is that this is far from a new conception. For, long before the invention of the text, was that of the _love letter._

Anthony J. Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Denizen of Hell, Demon Servant of Satan, knew love letters. He’d written approximately two hundred love letters over the past millennia, after all.

And he hadn’t sent any of them.

His first love letter, written in roughly 1100, said something equivalent to: “I don’t hate being around you,” which, for someone whose job description, personality, and inherent nature all combine to make expressing gooey emotions both arduous and frustrating, was quite a feat. While not incapable of feeling love, demons do have great difficulty communicating it, which is where the stigma that they can’t feel it originated from.

Crowley tossed it in a nearby fire after looking it over and someone shouted at him for wasting paper, which gave him a grim bit of satisfaction among the exasperation.

His fifty-fourth love letter was during the Elizabethan period.

This one was better – one would hope, what with all his practice – and said more fluidly, something to the effect of, “your company brings me joy.” It was nothing short of miraculous, managing even that much. Only took a handful of centuries. A few of the letters in this era he showed to William, and accidentally inspired some sonnets.

He wrote dozens and dozens during the 19th century. The Victorian period popularized love letters to an unseen extent, something he ardently did not take credit for and would never admit to influencing. There was even a whole language for the colors of the wax seals. He alternated between sealing his with green, for hope, and light red, for happy lovers, with a heavy leaning toward the former.

(He fancifully wrote a marriage proposal once, for kicks, sealed in white, which caught flame from his blush alone before the wax had even dried.)

The long and short of it is that, come the twenty-first century, Crowley was the master of the unsent love letter. The only reason this didn’t extend to text messages was that Aziraphale’s phone was incapable of receiving them.

As such, three months post-ArmageNotHappenin’, Crowley found himself with a pen in hand once more.

He hadn’t meant to get drunk, see. He was really just binging _The Golden Girls_ when an episode came up involving a character named Jean, who developed a crush on Rose.

_“I haven’t met someone as good and decent as Rose since Pat died…”_ Jean lamented on the screen, _“and I think I’m falling in love.”_

Crowley brought out the alcohol at the nine-minute mark. He was two bottles in when the confession scene came on.

_“Rose, I want to tell you something,”_ Jean murmured nervously. The pop of a cork echoing in the empty flat did not drown out her words. _“If I don’t tell you, I’ll never get to sleep…I like you very much, Rose.”_

Crowley squinted at the screen, bottle aloft.

_“I think you’re very special.”_

Crowley leaned forward, just a touch.

_“What I really want to say is…I’m quite fond of you.”_

Crowley took a long swig of the drink, not bothering with the glass anymore.

As the rest of the episode began to play, Crowley straightened up from his serpentine draping across the black leather sofa and stood, a wee bit wobbly.

He’d seen the episode dozens of times, of course. He’d seen _every_ episode dozens of times. But the slightest bit drunk and thoroughly love-struck, Crowley decided he didn’t want to see the ending, the inevitable rejection. One that sounded a bit too close to how Aziraphale would do it, was Crowley to ever confess.

 _“I don’t understand these kinds of feelings,”_ Rose said from the flat screen apologetically, _“but if I did understand, if I were, ya know, like you, I think I’d be very flattered and proud that you thought of me that way.”_

Polite as ever, uncomfortable with his messy emotions. The kindest rejection possible, because Aziraphale was kind, to the heart of him.

But it would still be a rejection.

Crowley crossed the room to his office, the sound of the episode’s final moments quiet and distant as he pulled out pen and paper from the drawer. They hadn’t been in the drawer before he found them there, but he rather expected he’d have some paper and a pen on hand, so he did. It was a fancy fountain pen and everything.

The way Crowley saw it, there was little merit to confessing love verbally. Since he watched films and shows, he saw many a love confession played out in his media with words, and they were chaotic. They were indistinct, poorly planned, and prone to fault and missteps. This was why he had always liked writing letters, instead. He could plan out his every syllable and redraft it however many times he needed, and then, at the end of it all, the ordeal was stress-free because he obviously wasn’t going to send it.

Writing love letters when he got all pining-y and maudlin was practically a habit at this point.

_My dearest angel,_

He paused and drank again before continuing.

_I like you very much, Aziraphale. I think you’re special. What I want to say is that I’m quite fond of you._

He shook his head and burned the letter with a snap before pulling out a new sheet. He continued his steady drinking as he scribbled, more honest and reckless than he might be when not inebriated. Shockingly, single malt scotch didn’t improve the situation.

_My angel,_

_I couldn’t tell you, if I tried, how many times I’ve nearly told you all of the feelings I have. For you, that is. Every inch of hope you’ve given me makes me tiptoe the line between the platonic and the romantic. Both have been forbidden for us for so long, it didn’t bear thinking about. ~~I thought about it a lot, anyway.~~ Our friendship we had to fight for, quite literally in many ways, and it’s so recent that we’ve learned how to feel safe together – now that we actually are._

_I know you’re content the way our relationship is, and if you’re content, if you’re happy, then so am I. I am a simpler demon than you realize. Even among my wants, the strongest has always been that you are happy. I don’t care to ask for anything in return, though my most demonic self writhes at the selflessness of the thought. Don’t call me kind for it. It’s simply ~~prar~~ ~~prioritiz~~ knowing what’s important._

_Nonetheless, you’ve taken up permanent residence in my heart. Metaphorically, you know, not saying our little trick after Armageddon had side effects or anything. I mean it like the humans do. ~~Gosh, I really am rubbish at this. You’d think all the practice would make me a little more romantic.~~_

_Anyway, let’s keep it simple. I love you, I’m in love with you, always have been, always will be. Poetics aren’t my thing, but maybe one day I’ll be able to write something good enough for you._

_Anyway._

_With love,_

_Crowley_

Crowley sat back in his throne and crossed his arms.

It wasn’t his best work, but far from his worst. He reread it, crossed a few things out, and considered writing a second raft before deciding he didn’t feel like it. Then, folding it into thirds, he slipped it into an envelope (also from the drawer of miraculously-having-things-that-weren’t-there-before). He signed Aziraphale’s name across the back in the fanciest script he could manage, which was only slightly less legible than his usual scrawl.

Crowley actually had excellent penmanship, it’s just that _most_ cursive is just short of illegible by design. One of his prouder achievements.

The world was dark with nighttime and fizzy with drink, and as he stared at the love letter in his hands – one of hundreds – his brain, for the first time since the early 18th century, genuinely considered sending the letter.

He shouldn’t. He should burn it right now. There were few worse ideas in the world, honestly.

He spent the next half hour thinking about it. Technically, they were free from Heaven and Hell now. They wouldn’t be punished or in danger for what they did, anymore. And he knew Aziraphale liked him, was fond of him, cared about him. Loved him, in that angelic way. But he could never quite convince himself, could never quite let himself believe for fear of disappointment, that Aziraphale felt the same way romantically.

But Crowley was a demon in love. A very, very drunk demon in love.

It was an old-fashioned touch by then, but one he had grown fond of, so he pulled out his old wax seal kit and prepped the candle. While waiting for it to melt, he brought out his wings and carefully pulled one of the smallest, a tiny black thing. This he placed atop the envelope before pooling the red wax over it, stamping firmly to keep the wax and feather in place. He blew on it to harden.

(The feather was a tradition from Sweden, meant to indicate that the letter required a quick delivery. Crowley, of course, did this entirely for sentimental reasons.)

It was the messiest sealing job he’d ever done, as it was less that there was some alcohol in his bloodstream, and more like there was some blood in his alcoholstream. Some wax ended up on his toe of his boots, somehow. He wouldn’t know just how _much_ he had drunken until a handful of days later when he discovered his wine collection was sixteen bottles short.

High on the intoxication of freedom and, well, intoxication, he ran a gentle finger over the cooled wax seal (the stamp of which depicted a little serpent, naturally) and smoothed the vanes of his feather before snapping and miracling the letter to Aziraphale’s bookshop.

He blinked a few times at his hand, still poised in the air, the other now empty of parchment. He had the vague sense drunk people do that they’ve just made a horrible, irreversible mistake, before shrugging it off with the same confidence that gets drunks into these situations, to begin with.

He slumped back onto his sofa and barely registered what was playing on the television, falling asleep on contact.

‘~*O*~’

Crowley noticed two things upon his awakening.

The first was the splitting headache and general soreness, indications that he forgot to sober himself before crashing the night before. He gave a melodramatic groan and snapped the pain away.

The second was that, with his suffering gone, select memories of the prior evening flooded his consciousness with horrifying clarity. He fell off the couch with a handful of expletives, and then a few more for good measure.

He ran his fingers over his face. “Fuck,” he repeated. “What have I _done?”_

What he’d _done_ was send a sappy love letter to his secret crush of six-to-two thousand years (the _when_ of the falling in love thing, he never could quite pinpoint; it just was A Thing eventually).

The culprits of this utter disaster were currently glinting in the early sunlight streaking through his large glass windows, innocently scattered as though they had no hand in the terrible decision making that occurred the night before.

Crowley immediately positioned his hand to snap the letter back. After all, what if Aziraphale _read_ it? With his eyes? And knew it was from Crowley? And read the words he wrote? Oh Satan Below, what had he written, anyway?

Just as he poised his fingers for miraculous friction, he paused.

What if Aziraphale had… _already_ read the letter?

It would be suspicious if Aziraphale had already read it, or even been aware of its existence, and Crowley miracled it away. What might he think? What if he was reading it _right that moment?_ What if Aziraphale knew now – if Crowley came over and Aziraphale knew the demon loved him? Had he ruined everything? (And really, of all the love letters to send, it had to be this one? He’d written a rather nice one in the 1930s; why couldn’t have been that one if this had to happen?)

Even Crowley had enough self-awareness to see that he was panicking a bit.

He grabbed for his phone, half-dreading and half-hoping for a missed call or _something_ , but saw only notifications for apps he was pretty sure he’d turned notifications off for. He swiped them away with a frustrated grunt.

It was just before noon. Aziraphale didn’t sleep, so he’d had approximately ten hours to discover the letter, if Crowley’s guess at when he’d passed out was accurate. Crowley hadn’t had a specific location in mind when he sent it, so for all he knew, it could be on his desk, or tucked in a Shakespeare Folio, or dissolving in his kettle, or fucking _anywhere_ in that literary labyrinth. There was no telling where it had landed, so no telling if Aziraphale had seen it yet.

In all honestly, the letter lain bare on his desk was just as likely to go entirely unnoticed as a dark corner if Aziraphale was in a reading binge, which he always was. But still.

Crowley hopped up and started pacing.

So.

He could miracle the letter back now. If Aziraphale had not seen it, all would be well, and life could carry on undisturbed. If he had, that would lead to awkward questions and reaping the consequences of his actions, something Crowley did his best to avoid at all times. He could always feign ignorance, but he knew Aziraphale was too smart for that.

If he didn’t miracle the letter back, however, he ran the risk that Aziraphale had not yet found it and still might. Which, while the intended outcome, was utterly unacceptable to a sober Crowley.

Was there any chance Aziraphale might misunderstand the intent of the letter? Ah. No, probably not. He was fairly certain he’d said the three forbidden words in it rather plainly. And – oh fuck, he’d put one of his feathers on the wax seal, hadn’t he? Nope. There was no misunderstanding that, Swedish post traditions be damned. Wings were intimate as Hea – He – Earth, perhaps, and an angel would know a demon’s feather anywhere.

He could go to the bookshop, brave the winter chill, and try to find the letter in person – hopefully unopened – and steal it away without Aziraphale noticing. If the angel had already read the letter, however, that would be a fool’s errand and the biblical equivalent of walking into the lion’s den. He very much doubted They would be sending any angels to “shut the mouths of the lions” for him, which had been one of Aziraphale’s most resented assignments since.

Basically, Crowley was fucked.

He spent the remainder of the day pacing his flat, from plant room to bedroom to office and back, pondering and mulling.

Not fretting, Crowley didn’t fret. Of course not.

He went back and forth on his options and nearly miracled the letter back anyway but couldn’t work up the nerve. As the hours wore on and he still hadn’t made up his mind about what to do, it became increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to do anything, like a human with too many Netflix options who spends their evening reading film descriptions long after the popcorn’s run out.

Chances were higher with every moment that the letter had been discovered. Crowley sighed deeply and hoped against hope that he somehow hadn’t made a horrible mistake.

The doorbell going off at half-past six caused Crowley to startle so badly, he nearly sent his golden pothos (symbolic of perseverance and longing) sprawling across the floor. Unsurprisingly, considering Crowley didn’t get visitors from anyone else (demonic agents aside), it was Aziraphale at the door. He was bundled in a tartan scarf and fluffy earmuffs and blue mittens _(mittens!)_ like that didn’t go straight to Crowley’s heart or anything.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Uh, yeah, hi.” Crowley blinked slowly and tried not to think words like _cute_. “Er, want to come in?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Aziraphale said, crossing the threshold when Crowley swung the door open and gestured entry. He left his winter accoutrements by the door and Crowley tried (and failed) to pretend to himself that he wasn’t already planning outdoor winter outings for them in order to see the angel wrapped up like a soft, beige pillow again.

“What brings you here?” Crowley asked, trying to sound casual as he led the angel deeper into the flat. He was grateful he’d thought to clean up all the bottles at some point in his brooding. “Everything okay?”

“Just wanted to come by,” Aziraphale replied cryptically. Crowley paused in his step to side-eye him warily, the angel bright as a cream-colored star among the monochrome of his residence.

“Right. Uh, did – did you get, er…” Crowley petered off, sticking his hands in his pockets, realizing he was a complete idiot to try mentioning it even as he spoke.

Aziraphale looked at him searchingly, hand clasped across his stomach tightly, as though trying to keep himself from wringing them. “Your letter?” he inquired in a soft, even tone.

Crowley took a deep shuddering breath and let it out, long and slow. He wished he had thought to put his sunglasses on before opening the door. “Yeah.”

“I did. It was on your sofa, in the back.”

_Your_ sofa? Crowley tried not to dwell on that. “Right.”

There was a weighted pause.

“And?”

“And, well, I’m here to respond to it, I suppose.”

Crowley felt a bead of sweat on his neck and tried to look nonchalant, unaffected, even as he internally braced himself. There was simply no way Aziraphale felt the same, he reminded himself firmly. _Don’t hope._

“Say your piece, then,” Crowley said Very Suavely And Not At All Nervous.

Aziraphale seemed to soften a bit at the jittery tone and nodded. “Right. Well, I thought I might respond with a letter of my own, but…honestly, I couldn’t find the words to say it just right.”

Crowley stared at him, unblinkingly, arms crossed and not daring to hope. He couldn’t let himself; the disappointment would crush him-

“May I show you, without words?” Aziraphale asked, quiet, and yet so loud to Crowley’s ears.

The demon nodded, certain he _had_ to be misinterpreting this somehow. “Sure.”

Aziraphale reached out and grasped Crowley’s shoulders to steady himself.

Or, no, not for steadying himself at all, Crowley realized as he was pulled forward and his lips met Aziraphale’s in a clumsy kiss.

Crowley was quite sure he was going to explode. Bits of himself, scattered across his clean flat. A mess, a hellish mess, of lovesick, besotted demon just…all over the place. He was, in hindsight, nearly as surprised by the fact that he was still in one piece when the kiss ended as by the kiss itself.

So, really, it was quite something.

Crowley blinked. He was realizing he hadn’t closed his eyes for the kiss and that was probably not very romantic, but the rest of his brain was mostly just a buzz that would put Beelzebub’s swarm to shame. Just, completely empty of thought. Nothing. Knock, knock? No one.

Aziraphale stared as Crowley’s higher functions rebooted, eyes blown wide and cheeks dusted pink, looking very much as though Crowley was the one who had kissed him first, rather than the other way around. His breath skated across Crowley’s mouth, which was hung open in shock, and Sa- G- Someone, if that wasn’t the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced in his _blessed life._

“Damn,” Crowley managed, half-strangled, and Aziraphale seemed to snap out of his trance at that and, of all the most adorable things, _giggled._

“Language, dear,” he chastised lightly.

“Seriously?” Crowley said, fuzzily incredulous. “You just kissed me. I can swear if I want to.”

“Or you could kiss me again?”

Crowley pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s and closed his eyes, taking in and expelling a deep, steadying breath, heart rabbiting in a frenzy. “Am I dying? I think I’m dying.”

And what a way to go, he thought.

“You’re not dying,” Aziraphale said fondly. “I wouldn’t let you, anyway.”

No, yeah, definitely dying.

After a moment, Aziraphale spoke again. “I apologize,” he murmured, suddenly sincere. Crowley snapped his eyes open and watched Aziraphale watching him, gentle and fond and caring. It ached in Crowley’s chest to see. “You wrote such a lovely letter, and…well, I never dared to dream you might feel this way. So perhaps I’m a bit overwhelmed. But I do love you, Crowley, in all the same ways you do me.”

Crowley drew back with wide, golden eyes.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed. “Crowley?”

“Mmm. Gimme a moment.”

From so close, it was impossible to miss the way Aziraphale’s face glowed with warmth, as though Crowley being a flustered mess was somehow endearing or something cheesy and gross like that. Crowley hid his face against the angel’s neck, embarrassed, and Aziraphale drew him closer until they were – they were –

Hugging.

_Wha-_

“Thank you,” the angel murmured, “for sending that letter. For telling me how you feel. For loving me.”

Crowley hummed noncommittally, shifting his arms up around Aziraphale’s plush middle. “Was mostly an accident,” he muttered.

He chuckled. “Well, I doubt anyone really falls in love on purpose, my dear.”

The endearment, the same as always, felt completely different now. That, paired with the word “love” again, caused Crowley to stutter a bit before managing words.

“I-I meant. Er. The letter,” he confessed against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel didn’t let Crowley hide there any longer and pulled back enough to face him, bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Ah. Um…” Crowley pressed his lips together hesitantly before admitting defeat. “I, ah, didn’t mean to send the letter. Was gonna burn it.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up, the very picture of perplexity. “Why?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. In for a penny, in for a pound. “’S what I’ve always done with ‘em. The l-love letters I write you. Wrote for you.”

He heard Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath, holding his own.

“How…how many letters?”

Crowley leaned back almost imperceptibly in the embrace, face turning away a touch.

“Crowley. How many letters have you written for me, and burned?”

The demon’s eyes fluttered open slimly to stare up at the ceiling. “Couple.”

“Couple?”

“Hundred.”

“Hundred?!”

The demon nodded.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to kiss you again.”

“Okay.”

He did. Crowley remembered to close his eyes this time.

‘~*O*~’

Aziraphale had never been the type to display letters on his mantle.

This was mostly because he had rarely received letters before. Sure, he got Heavenly mandates and reprimands by post, but those were not the kinds of cards one put on display. On a rare occasion, he might get a letter from a human acquaintance, especially in the days when cards for holidays was more the done thing, but even that petered out in time. None of them were sentimental, anyhow, sent less out of love and more for social obligation.

As such, the next time Crowley visited the bookshop – the next day – he was surprised for just a moment to see a card propped on the mantle of the unlit fireplace in the backroom. Aziraphale was puttering in the front room, promising to be just a moment before leaving for their dinner reservations. It only took Crowley a second to process before he reached the obvious conclusion, spurred on by the red seal and black feather.

He took a few careful steps across the room to look at it, sitting there, placed so clearly with a reverence that it made Crowley feel all fuzzy.

Then he noticed it. A very slight change to the letter. His breath caught in his throat.

There, nestled among the wax as naturally as though it had always been there, was a small white feather, a perfect, opposing match to Crowley’s black one, the two pressed together in the red seal.

He wasn’t going to cry, dammit.

When he gathered himself, Crowley traced the edge of the white feather carefully with a fingertip in awe, following it seemingly into the black, vanes intertwining as he did so.

“Dear?”

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale watching him, eyes flitting between Crowley’s face and the letter.

“Is – is it okay?” he asked, hesitantly. “Your letter was already perfect, truly, I just thought it might be a – a nice touch…”

Crowley stepped forward, grabbed the sides of Aziraphale’s head, and kissed him soundly on the forehead. “Stop talking,” he growled.

Aziraphale smiled at him _oh so softly_ , and Crowley Did Not Blush.

As they left for their dinner plans, hand-in-hand, Crowley glanced back to the mantle. It made him feel all sorts of gross gooiness to see it up there, but he couldn’t help but think that the love letter looked rather…lonely.

He smiled wide to himself. Perhaps he should do something about that.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  THE LETTER WITH THE TWO FEATHERS IS REAL.  
> I could find very little reliable information on the Swedish feather letter thing, so I can’t promise historical accuracy, but I and Crowley are too sappy not to take advantage of that High Romance Potential.  
> But also, like. Just look at this 1809 letter. The black and white feather, together, under red wax? Like, I KNOW that’s not the original meaning, OBVIOUSLY, but COME ON. LOOK AT IT. How could I resist?  
> [Here’s a link to some more info on it.](https://www.mintageworld.com/media/detail/11353-swedish-folded-letter-with-two-feathers/)
> 
> Side note, the Golden Girls episode mentioned is “Isn’t it Romantic?” I have a thorough, lifelong distaste for this show, but I suffered through the whole thing for those few lines of reference. Why is it book-canon that you like this show, Crowley. Why.  
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I’ve no intention of confessing today - IneffableDoll [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620324) by [spinner_of_yarns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinner_of_yarns/pseuds/spinner_of_yarns)




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